The Adventures of Elrond and Thranduil
by Tar-Palantir
Summary: The Aventures of Elrond and Thranduil; the pancake saga. Ever wonder what elves would be like making pancakes? We did, and this was the result... R


Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing belongs to me. I literally have no assets, and none by the name of Elrond, Thranduil, Lindir, Glorfindel, Saruman, Sauron, Mirkwood, Rivendell or any related things of such substance.  
  
The Adventures of Elrond and Thranduil  
Elrond and Thranduil in:  
  
The Pancake Adventure  
  
'Tra la la lally, down in the Valley,' the Elves sang merrily as they pranced around the second kitchen on the first floor, flipping pancakes and drinking wine. The smell of pancakes wafted through the clear room like a gentle summer's breeze.  
  
The pancakes were cooked to perfection, an art learned only through centuries of studying pancake making. Indeed it was an art, as a badly made pancake claimed the maker to be vulgar and consequently shunned from all respectable elf society. These pancakes were perfectly made, being not too soft, or too sweet. They were golden-brown, crisp on the outside with a hint of butter, and warm, pale and fluffy on the inside.  
  
The Elves finished their song and a restful, contented silence fell over the group, each busy with the making of pancakes. A young elf began a song, in tribute to their superbly made, rather delicious pancakes. The song was sweet, and its texture mirrored that of the pancakes excellently. It had an easy and lively tune, and soon the other elves joined in, leaving their pancakes to one side to enjoy the experience of a well-sung song.  
  
'O pancake golden-brown!  
  
So sweet and fluffy  
  
So perfectly round!  
  
Thee we praise! To thee we sing!  
  
Cooking gaily  
  
O'er a flaming ring!  
  
So sweet you smell,  
  
It is time you turned  
  
We left you too long  
  
And now you burn!'  
  
They were awakened sharply from their song by the harsh, unmistakable smell of burning pancakes. Smoke rose through the kitchen like an evil hand from a disregarded frying pan left in a corner near one of the many windows looking down into the valley. Suddenly the Elves sprang into action, each lunging across the room in a vain attempt to stop the poor innocent pancake from burning where it sat. In one swift movement Glorfindel grabbed the handle of the pan, and flipped the pancake high in the air. The pancake flew above the heads of all the tall elves. Then, painstakingly slowly, it began to fall again. The pancake's every move was watched be the Elves, crowding the kitchen, waiting in suspense.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
''Tis a lovely day,' said Thranduil, leaning back on his chair on one of the high decks, 'considering.'  
  
'Considering what, pray?' asked Elrond, leaning forward and frowning. Something was troubling him, and he couldn't put his long, graceful finger on it; and it wasn't the presence of the King of Mirkwood.  
  
'O, just considering you sent my son off to fight some war in the south that does not concern us Elvenfolk. Without my permission I might add.'  
  
'I have explained my position to you already Thranduil,' said Elrond heatedly. 'Time was of the essence; if we wished to gain advantage over the enemy then we needed to act quickly. We decided in my council, the Council of Elrond, that all the free peoples must be represented in the quest of the Ring - and I wasn't about to go again.'  
  
'Yes, regarding the council named after yourself, may I enquire why I wasn't invited? I am the King of the woodland realm of Mirkwood, and you can't go taking the credit for everything you know.'  
  
'As I have said, time was of the ... do you smell burning?'  
  
Thranduil sat up in his seat, sniffing the air intently, his keen Elven senses kicking in.  
  
'Yes,' he said. 'I do believe it smells like burning...'  
  
'Pancakes!' shouted Elrond in rage. 'I told them not to cook any until we had our Century-ly Pancake Conference, so we could discuss methods and techniques!'  
  
'They are disgracing the name of Elven Pancakes!' Thranduil cried in disgrace.  
  
''I must set things to rights,' muttered Elrond, storming off the deck towards the kitchens.  
  
'I will come, the business of pancakes involves us all,' said Thranduil.  
  
'Very well,' muttered Elrond.  
  
They stormed down to the second floor, determined to set things straight and to reprimand anyone who had disgraced the pancakes and the art of pancake making.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The pancake fell slowly through the air. Down it fell, for what seemed like an age, then in one swift movement Glorfindel scooped it up onto the pan. The flipped side the pancake was black, still smoking. It felt foul, as anything good that has been ruined does. The Elves looked down on it in utter sadness. A perfectly good pancake had been ruined by someone's foolishness; it seemed a terrible, stupid loss.  
  
Elrond and Thranduil burst through the door, their faces a picture of rage.  
  
'Who did this?' shouted Elrond, looking around the fair heads of the Elves accusingly. His eyes rested on Glorfindel, still clutching the pan with the burnt pancake on it. A look of great disappointment came into his eyes. 'I did not expect this of you, Glorfindel,' Elrond said quietly, Thranduil glaring at Glorfindel over Elrond's shoulder.  
  
'I did not...' stammered the Elven Lord, 'I was trying to save the pancake, I swear upon my beautiful hair that I was not responsible for this!'  
  
'A likely story,' whispered Thranduil maliciously in Elrond's sensitive ear.  
  
'Very well, Glorfindel, who did do this?'  
  
'We were singing, a song for the beauty and wonder of pancakes, and the pan was left disregarded. It is no one's fault, or it is everyone's fault,' said Lindir.  
  
'Then let it be everyone's fault,' said Elrond bitterly, unhappy that he could not take out his anger and embarrassment on the culprit. 'Now let us show you how to make pancakes, as you seem unable to do it for yourselves.'  
  
Then, with Thranduil's assistance, Elrond proceeded to pour the mixture into the pan carefully. Then he shook it gently, explaining how to achieve a regular consistency across the entire pan. He also warned them that they need to shake the pan immediately after pouring the mixture onto the pan, so that ugly lines did not show where it had cooked unevenly.  
  
With smell of the cooking pancake the Elve's hearts were lifted again, and they began their fair song again.  
  
'O pancake golden brown!  
  
So sweet and fluffy  
  
So perfectly round!'  
  
Elrond smiled slightly, enjoying the tune of the song, it had a lovely rolling melody, and accompanied the cooking of pancakes wonderfully, making the task a pleasure.  
  
'Thee we praise! To thee we sing!  
  
Cooking gaily  
  
O'er a flaming ring!'  
  
Elrond was awakened from his stupor by the last part of the song. His eyes, suddenly widened, flared with great wrath.  
  
'What did you say?' He shouted. 'What was that about a flaming ring? I told you never to mention it, never. Did I not tell you of the power of words? Sauron is turning his great eye towards Rivendell as we speak. His spies are ever watchful, even here, in Rivendell. He will be amassing to attack our small valley of paradise and take what he thinks is his.'  
  
'We were singing of the ring of flames over which we cook pancakes,' Glorfindel explained. 'Not the Ring, we would not mention such an evil trinket.'  
  
I do not want any reference or mention of it. Henceforth no one is to mutter a word about the Ring in Rivendell. You have not idea the power in that Ring. I saw it, I was there, thousands of years ago, I was there when the strength of Men failed to the strength of the Ring.'  
  
'Yes, Lord Elrond, we know you were there. You tell us at every possible opportunity, and every time you come over to Mirkwood, which, thankfully, is not often,' said Thranduil.  
  
'What do you mean 'thankfully'? I would be careful, Thranduil, to speak so in the House of Elrond, in the presence of Elrond and those loyal to him,' said Lindir in a low, menacing voice.  
  
'Indeed,' said Elrond calmly. 'You would do well to remember where you are and who your company is. We are not unrefined hole-dwellers who take part in fruitless wars over, say, a mountain full of treasure.'  
  
'Treasure which was rightfully ours!' shouted Thranduil, outraged. 'And what did you do? Kept the company of Dwarves, then set them off on a mission, on which they would surely perish on, when you got sick of their company! Unrefined indeed! It is quite one thing, Elrond, to be called unrefined by someone of higher standing, but it is quote another to be so called by one who is not. Do you smell that? It smells like burning...'  
  
'Pancakes!' cried Elrond. He spun around, grabbed the pan and flipped the pancake high in the air. Up it spun, lop-sided, one side dragging dangerously towards the ground. Then:  
  
SPLAT!!  
  
The Elves looked up towards the ceiling. There, stuck to the roof of the kitchen, sat the pancake, it's burnt side facing down, glaring at them. Elrond looked at it in disgust.  
  
'Who put that roof there?!' He demanded, all reason lost in his anger.  
  
Thranduil looked up at the pancake, a slight smile flickering across his face.  
  
'You,' Elrond glared at him. 'This is your fault.'  
  
'How so?' Asked Thranduil coolly. 'I did not put the roof there, the King of an Elven realm does not lower himself to such labour.'  
  
'Had you not distracted me, the pancake would never have been burnt!'  
  
'You mean, if you had not been yelling at me, then you would not have burnt the pancake, not would you have caused it to be at it's current position - on the roof.'  
  
'What are you Elves doing here?' shouted Elrond, turning to the other Elves to cover for the absence of a good comeback. 'Get out of my kitchen! I will not have you burning any more pancakes and disgracing the name of Rivendell!'  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
'The mixture is too thick,' Thranduil pointed out, as yet another pancake was tossed onto the pile of burnt and blackened pancakes. They had all been burnt on the outside, but remained uncooked on the inside.  
  
'It's not too thick,' Elrond snapped. 'The pan is too hot, it needs to cook more slowly and evenly.'  
  
'Then turn the heat down,' Thranduil said condescendingly, as if he were speaking to a young, rather dull Elfling who had just missed a target in archery class. Not that Thranduil would ever engage himself in teaching archery to Elflings: he was much too busy merry-making for that, and Mirkwood didn't run itself.  
  
'It can't go down any lower,' Elrond said heatedly.  
  
'Now, see in Mirkwood we have what's called temperature control, for this delicate kind of pancake making. But of course in Mirkwood we have Elves who can actually cook pancakes.' Needless to say, Thranduil was getting annoyed. Elrond insisted on making the pancakes and would not let the King of Mirkwood near the pan.  
  
'That was harsh, Thranduil. I would be careful what I say, if I were you.'  
  
'Yes, but you are not me. You are not, if I remember correctly, a king of any sort, and do not have the kind of lineage I do. And you do not have regular of wine into this valley, nor are you excessively rich, as I am. You would therefore have no idea what I would do, or what it is like to be me.'  
  
'You are shallow. One who cares for titles and wealth only deserves to be mortal. You would fit in nicely with the other Mortal Men, Thranduil.'  
  
'The only people who claim not to care for wealth and titles are those who have neither. You do realise you have burnt yet another pancake, don't you?' Thranduil said coolly.  
  
'What?' Elrond yelled. 'This is your fault!'  
  
'How so? Just let me have a go, will you?' Thranduil had adopted the Mr Cool attitude a thousand years ago, and was not about to give it up now.  
  
'Fine, you do it,' said Elrond, unwillingly. There was a knack to making pancakes, but somewhere in the last millennia he'd lost it.  
  
Thranduil stirred the mixture before adding some milk from a convenient jug. He stirred it again, as Elrond impatiently looked on. He poured the mixture onto the pan, and shook it with deliberate smugness. Pancake making was one of his many talents he had discovered in his long and wonderful life. Unfortunately many of his talents were of no practical value (such as being able to sculpt Lembas into beautiful figures with his tongue), so this talent ranked highly for its use in everyday Elvish life.  
  
The smell of cooking pancakes soon wafted about the room, mingling with the smell of burnt, ruined and disgraced pancakes. The mixture on the pan bubbled, and with skill and grace equal to Glorfindel, Thranduil flipped the pancake high in the air, and scooped it up cooked side facing upwards, back onto the pan.  
  
Elrond looked on with disgust, before remembering how the business of making pancakes had made him so very hungry. Elrond found another pan and poured some of the mixture onto his pan. It was soon bubbling merrily, and Elrond went to flip the pancake.  
  
Thranduil stopped him just in time. 'It's all in the wrist,' he said, neatly flipping his pancake with little effort shown.  
  
Elrond nodded, frowning in concentration. He flipped his pancake. High it went into the air, missing the roof where many ill-fated pancakes had come to rest that morning, and flopped neatly into Elrond's pan. He smiled indulgently to himself.  
  
The pile of pancakes grew and grew as Elrond and Thranduil happily made their pancakes, all former differences put aside. The pancakes' only tragedy was that they were stacked below a window looking out onto a balcony. Any elf who, by happenstance, came to be on that particular veranda on that particular morning would merely have to put a slender arm through the open window and take a pancake before Elrond or Thranduil looked up from their cooking.  
  
Finally Elrond poured the rest of the batter of the fourth batch onto the pan. He looked at the bowl in dismay, like an elfling just realising that a wine bottle was not an inexhaustible source of wine. He had quite enjoyed making pancakes, even if it was in the company of Thranduil, who on reflection wasn't such a bad Elf.  
  
They stood around the pile of newly made pancakes, staring at the pile, daring each other to take the first one and begin the feast.  
  
'I'm sure we made more than that,' said Elrond, puzzled.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
'No, no really, you have the last one,' Elrond said, leaning back, letting his stomach rest after his twenty-second pancake.  
  
'No, I insist,' said Thranduil, 'you have it.'  
  
'No, you are a guest in Rivendell. It is only courteous of the host to extend every courtesy to the guest.'  
  
'And I, as the guest, respectfully decline the offer. As you say, it is your house, and the pancakes were made in your own kitchens using your materials. You should therefore have the last one.'  
  
'It is your duty as my guest to accept my offer, for fear of offending your host.'  
  
'You have a very strict, gothic opinion of what is and is not my duty,' said Thranduil heatedly. 'I, as your guest do not want your pancake, and it is your duty as a host to respect my decision, for fear of offending your guest.'  
  
Then, as if on cue, a raven swooped down and grabbed the last pancake from the platter, then flew quickly out of the window.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
The raven flew with the pancake to Orthanc, to deliver news to Saruman the Wise. The raven, whose name happened to be Hamish, had been instructed to keep watch on Rivendell for many weeks, and report any strange activities, or major events. This, according to Hamish's reckoning, fell under both categories.  
  
Saruman was perched precariously on top of the Tower of Orthanc looking rather busy and a tad stressed out. Hamish only hoped he brought good news, as Saruman was seemed likely to snap under the pressure of this double treachery he had gotten himself into. Hamish was only doing his job. At the end of the day he only didn't want to be served as dinner for a couple of Uruk-Hai.  
  
It was a good job, as far as raven occupations were concerned. How else was he supposed to earn a decent living with all the stigma attached to Ravens? The Elves wouldn't give him a job; they thought he was a spy of the enemy, even when there was no enemy. The Men were superstitious to the extreme, a weak cover for their sheer stupidity, and thought ravens the bringers of bad luck. Bad luck was all the Hamish had had trying to find a job with decent wages. That was until Saruman came along one day and gave him an offer he could not refuse. So now he was only trying to earn enough to live on, maybe one day buy a nest, get married, have kids. That kind of thing. If he had to work for the Lord of all Evil to get there then so be it.  
  
Hamish, meanwhile, had perched himself on top of Orthanc, and was busy looking at nothing in particular and being immensely interested by it. Saruman finished looking busy and glared down at the bird. It wasn't an unfriendly glare, but a glare of general greeting.  
  
'Tell me,' Saruman said, his silky voice touched with a hint of bitterness, 'what news of the North? What has Elrond been brewing in Rivendell?'  
  
Hamish dropped the pancake at the wizard's feet. Saruman looked down on it in utter disgust. What was this bird-brained bird think he was doing? He had sent him off three weeks ago to spy on Rivendell, and now he drops breakfast foods at his feet?  
  
'Explain' he said icily.  
  
So Hamish told him, rather timidly, of all the events that had come to pass in Rivendell. He told of the coming of the woodland king, Thranduil, and his and Elrond's discussion on the balcony. Then he told Saruman of the making of a great many pancakes in Rivendell, and how both Elrond and Thranduil thought the matter of grave importance.  
  
'Interesting,' purred Saruman, stroking his long beard. 'So, Elrond, you are brewing something in Rivendell? I will find out what you are planning, and the race of Elves will regret ever being involved in this war.' He chuckled to himself, more for effect than anything else. A speech like that needed an evil chuckle at the end of it.  
  
He picked up the rather soiled pancake, and made his way down the many steps to his Palantir, now regretting ever setting his Uruk-Hai on the elevator sales-man. He would report this enemy activity to Sauron. He would know how to deal with Rivendell.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Two months later, in Rivendell:  
  
'I'm so glad you stayed awhile here Thranduil,' said Elrond. Thranduil had put out orders to Mirkwood for barrels of their best wine, and they had arrived with many a song the week before. Elrond, after perhaps a few too many bottles, was feeling friendly and relaxed, perhaps even bordering on jovial.  
  
'I too am glad. Rivendell is a comfortable place. Though perhaps not as extravagant and not quite so very fine as my caves in Mirkwood,' Thranduil, who could hold his liquor better, replied.  
  
Elrond glared at him, but decided not to reply. He settled for staring into the distance instead.  
  
'You know what we need?' Said Elrond after a while.  
  
'Another bottle?'  
  
'Pancakes!' he exclaimed, 'but I wouldn't say no to another bottle.'  
  
'Excellent! The finest pancakes with the finest wine! The very height of sophistication!'  
  
Elrond chose to ignore the sarcasm, and led the way down to the second kitchen on the first floor.  
  
He opened the door, looking back to make sure Thranduil was following. He turned around, and gasped in horror. All over the kitchen were pans and bowls, pancake batter dried onto them like glue. There was a pile of burnt pancakes in one corner and four pancakes still littered the ceiling.  
  
'Who made this mess?!' Elrond shouted in rage, sweeping out of the kitchen to find the culprit.  
  
Thranduil looked into the kitchen, an amused smile flickered across his face, before turning around composedly to follow the Lord of Rivendell.  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Thus ends the first chronicled adventure of Elrond and Thranduil. 


End file.
